By Andre Brink
In only one morning, he forgot who he was...
Three provocative and interconnected tales from one of many world's maximum dwelling writers:
A white painter in Africa involves his studio within the afternoon. On his doorstep, he sees a lady with curly hair and a dismal complexion. He hasn't ever noticeable her ahead of, yet she embraces him. As he steps earlier her, unusual young children rush to his toes yelling ''Daddy!'' This kinfolk welcomes him domestic, yet he is familiar with none of them.
On the opposite part of Cape city, a white guy pulls himself off the bed and towards his reflect, the place he's faced through his by surprise black face.
A live performance pianist falls passionately in love with the distinguished singer he works beside, yet can't convey himself to the touch her, till one evening they sit to devour dinner, and lookup to determine themselves surrounded by means of armed men.
In this new novel, Andre breaking point is at his most sensible, exploring the fractured but globalized international the place we discover ourselves and our lives transformed.
PRAISE FOR ANDRE verge of collapse
''South African novelist verge of collapse is a grasp stylist.'' Publishers Weekly
''Brink describes calamities and absurdities of the apartheid process with a chilly lucidity that during no manner interferes with excessive emotion and bold flights of the imagination.'' Mario Vargas Llosa, long island instances e-book evaluation
''One of crucial and prolific voices from South Africa.'' Library magazine
''If you need to get the sensation of South Africa, as strongly as Camus delivers the sensation of Algiers, you are going to flip to André Brink.'' Tribune
''Brink writes feelingly of South Africa—the land, the black, the white, the negative good looks and tragedy that lies therein.'' Publishers Weekly
''Brink is a hard-eyed storyteller.'' Philadelphia Inquirer
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Additional resources for Other Lives
Not to me it doesn’t,” he grumbles. ” “Up to you,” he says, with what sounds like a sneer. “But I must get to thirteen,” I insist. ” “Look,” I say, making an effort to remain calm, but aware of the tightness in my jaws and of salty perspiration stinging my eyes. “There is something funny going on here. ” asks old Methuselah. ” With a tremendous effort I restrain myself. ” “Just be patient. ” I demand He shrugs his bony old shoulders. His face has noticeably withered since my arrival. “I’ve been waiting here since I was eight.
Qxd:Layout 1 7/7/08 3:53 PM Page 37 OTHER LIVES them home, but in the dark and in their tiredness after the long day, they tumble into the wrong beds and cannot sleep—the little red man in the yellow bed, the yellow one in the blue bed, the blue one in the red bed. Until someone thinks of putting on the light and they discover the mistake, and each little man gets into the right bed, and they all sleep happily until daybreak. “Good,” says Sarah as she gets up quickly, and tucks both the children in, and kisses them.
And who, once I wake up in the morning, I may never see again. But in the meantime we have this night. Which may turn into a nightmare. Or not—? “I’m tired,” she says, almost in a whisper. “I’m going to bed. ” She pushes her chair back. “Don’t be long,” she says in a voice of shadows as deep as the night, and bends over to kiss me on the cheek. Not, I think emphatically. qxd:Layout 1 7/7/08 3:53 PM Page 43 8 S HE IS ALREADY IN BED WHEN I ARRIVE, LYING ON HER side, reading, her back turned to me, the outline of her body gracefully traced by the sheet, one smooth brown shoulder exposed.
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